M I C HAEL S M AL L, W RITER MONDAY, 7 FEBRUARY 2011
CYCLONE CORAL It was the cyclone season, that time of sudden change, even violation, when lives could be lost, or lost and found again. The time when villagers refuse strangers permission to cross their land. It was the time when sorcerers might summon foul weather or cast spells of love. It was the time when hardened trees could be split and uprooted: the burao, from which grass skirts were still made for stubborn grandmothers who refused western underwear and beaded doormen of posh hotels who didn’t; the natangura palm, whose sea-soaked strips of branch were dried as thatch for the roofs of traditional huts or luxurious overwater bungalows; the banyan tree, whose massy roots like distended organ pipes stood firm, as its threads, hanging from stout branches, danced like dervishes; the butterfruit with clusters of avocadoes and green-skinned breadfruits; the wild kava, whose thin, white roots James liked to chew on; the Christmas or flame tree like dragons’ breath. All were shaken by the freshening anger of the winds.
In front of the People’s Providence Fund building, the police were nervously pointing their guns fixed with tear gas canisters at hundreds of angry protesters.
This should not happen, James thought with unaccustomed annoyance and dismay, as he lined up the kayaks and catamarans on the beach near the thatched sun shelters. The chiefs flying into town from the islands. This means trouble. He could understand how the rascals stared at him, with curiosity rather than resentment, as he walked past the slum to the resort every morning on tough, bony feet, conscious of his company shirt gaudy with tropical flowers. You could eat off your own land, but not save, even if you sold your fruit at market. The poor people, the jobless, must be given loans too so they could start their own businesses, instead of getting out of bed at lunch-time, drinking kava till they lose their memory or playing petanque hour